It was one of those afternoons too hot for fieldwork, when the sun hung merciless and white overhead, turning the air into something thick as syrup. Even the hardiest of the vines seemed to sag under the weight of summer's full fury, their leaves drooping despite the deep irrigation channels that ran between the rows. The house itself felt like a refuge, its thick stone walls keeping the interior blessed degrees cooler than the scorching landscape beyond.
Lila found herself wandering upstairs in the heavy drowse of siesta time, drawn by the kind of restless energy that came with enforced idleness. She moved through the hallway with its collection of framed photographs—images of their life together that still sometimes surprised her with their abundance—and into their bedroom, where aftern
